


Different

by dumbkili



Series: Little Ghosts [1]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Dark, Spooky, based on my own tumblr post because i am garbage, the major character death is subjective really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbkili/pseuds/dumbkili
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wirt and Greg have returned from the Unknown (in a sense). They're the talk of the town- the boys who came back from the dead. Until, one day, they are fished out of the very lake they seemed to have escaped from. How did it happen? Why did it happen? The townspeople will never know, but we will. </p><p>A story about escaping, in every sense of the word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Best Place to Begin is at the End

They got fished out of the lake a couple years ago on Halloween night, still in their costumes. You know, the lake out behind the cemetery? That one. They got dragged out just at the stroke of midnight. At least, that's what they say. Not _them_ , not the brothers, but the kids they were with. The kids who called the ambulance. Jason and Sara and all of them.

 

They passed the story around town like wildfire, how the tall one pulled his brother up the bank and tried to call for help, but collapsed. Turns out that his lungs were filled with water. He almost didn't make it. He shouldn't have made it, really. Neither of them should have. And, you know, there are some people around town who say they didn't. That they really did die out there, out on the lake. Or that the little boy's lung really did turn out to be punctured by his broken rib after all, like the doctors worried might have happened. That the tall one spent a few breathless hours in the hospital, coughing and coughing and coughing, until he just couldn't anymore.

 

Not everybody thinks they're dead, but almost everyone agrees on this: those boys are Different, with a capital "D". Everyone who's talked to them has seen it, in one form or another- their Differentness. The way their eyes are too piercing, too wide and unblinking. Keera Price from the elementary school ran to the teacher in tears one day, don't you know it, because the little boy wouldn't stop staring at her, and she swears up and down that when the sun flashed in his eyes he didn't even flinch, and they were clouded over and misty like a corpse's.

 

And the girl, Sara, she hates to speak ill of her friends, so she says, but even she admits that it’s weird, that they’re both different. She tells a story sometimes, when she visits over the holidays from college, how she and the tall one were on a date (a little, tiny, harmless date, she says, nothing ever came of it, she says) and his hand brushed hers in an embarrassed teenage overture of romance, and his skin was ice cold. Lake-water cold. Just-shipped-in-from-the-ER, flat-on-a-morgue-table cold. He never blinked.

 

“And he didn’t blush,” she says, confused. “He was always blushing, before the lake. But he didn’t, then. Like he didn’t have any blood left for his face. Spooky.”

 

Sara goes to college across the country now. She hasn’t seen the tall boy in years, avoids his neighborhood and his brother’s school, anywhere she might run into them. He doesn’t look for her.

 

It’s not just harmless busibodies and nosy gossips, either. It’s doctors, family friends, teachers and policemen and dentists. Anybody who knows the boys, who’s talked to them- they’ve all got something to say. Doctor Whitman always whips out his story at dinner parties. Always the same routine, the same script, but even after all these years, it rings of truth. He knew these boys well, he’ll say. He’d treated their broken bones, their flus, their stomach bugs and ear infections. _Had_ treated them, past tense.

 

“Each of those boys would be in my office a couple times a year,” he’ll say gruffly, propping his elbows on his host’s dinner table and lowering his voice. Everyone else will lean in closer to hear him, ready to learn this secret they’ve all heard a million times before. “Every year, without fail. They were growing boys, not exactly in perfect health, you know, but they always bounced back from whatever it was.” He’ll pause, swirling his wine and savoring the attention. “But after the lake…” He’ll shake his head remorsefully. “Poof! I never saw them come in again. No broken bones, no illness. Nothing. I’d almost thought they’d moved away but… I suppose not.”

 

Miss Pheobe, the third grade teacher who taught the little one, has a slightly more meaningful story to tell. She won’t bust it out for just anybody, though. You have to convince her, with a really good reason and maybe a couple glasses of gin, but she’ll tell you eventually. How it was the boy’s turn to water the houseplants after school that day, and she was supervising from her desk as she graded papers, jotting down notes in the margins with neat red pen. How she heard giggling from the corner where the spider plant was, and looked up the see the boy laughing and laughing and laughing as the long, flat leaves curled their way up his arms like snakes. How she screamed. How when, ten minutes later, after she’d ripped the plant off of him and took many, many calming breaths, the tall one dropped by the pick the little one up. How she’d told him what happened, why there were red marks on the boy’s arms and the shredded remains of a spider plant in the corner, and he’d laughed and said, “Hey, it happens. The devil’s ivy by our front door tries to get me every time I leave for school.” She’ll tell you how the little one giggled again and caught the older one’s hand, and they both left together, laughing. She won’t tell you anything else after that, so don’t try to ask.

 

Yep, those boys are weird, no question about it. When they wander through the park, the little one skipping up ahead, and the tall one walking behind, things get out of the way. Squirrels, pigeons, dogs, even spiders. None of the animals want to be near the brothers- except for one kind. Bluebirds. The tall one has a fondness for bluebirds, it seems, and they hold him in the same regard. Kathleen, on the volleyball team, you know the one, remembers how she saw him out by the cemetery one day. He whistled, quietly, and an honest-to-god bluebird hopped down from a tree to perch on his shoulder (“like a fucking zombie Disney princess”). He’d talked to it, in low tones, like a conspirator, or a close friend, and then it flew off again. Nobody else in town likes bluebirds anymore.

 

The brothers are strange, but they’re sort of a fixture around town. A real-life urban legend for their tiny suburban borough. The tall one stays tall, and he doesn’t go to college. Sometimes he shows up for classes at the community college in town, but not always. He’s always hanging out with his brother. The little one isn’t little for more than a handful of years before he’s shooting up like a beanstalk, surpassing his brother when he’s fifteen. From then on, robbed of the easy anonymity that height-based nicknames afford them, the simple wall built by refusing to use their names, the townspeople just call them the brothers.

 

_Did you hear? The brothers were in the park today, and Mrs. Daniel’s dog broke her leash trying to get away._

_Did you hear? The brothers were walking outside today without coats on. It’s -10 degrees._

_Did you hear? Did you hear? Did you hear?_

The list is ever expanding and changing by the day, the exploits of these two enigmas catalogued and carefully folded away in the collective town memory. It’s a constant low-level hum around town until finally, one day-

 

_Did you hear? The brothers- oh, it’s awful. The brothers. They were found in the lake. Dead._

 

_The brothers drowned in the lake. Out back of the cemetery._

 

_The brothers drowned out behind the Eternal Garden. They’re dead. They fished them out this morning oh, isn’t it just terrible?_

 

No signs of a struggle. No signs of a fight. The older one’s lungs were filled with water, and the younger one had a broken rib and a punctured lung. The funeral is short and quick. Only family is allowed. Only family _wants_ to go.

  
There are no more bluebirds in the town. There are no more stories about the brothers. There are no more, because they are no more. But, sometimes, if you are walking by the cemetery at midnight, you can hear faint voices- two boys, laughing together under the trees, just beyond the wall. And maybe, just maybe, if you listen really hard and strain yourself, you can hear a girl’s voice, too, high and clear as the song of a bird, drifting up over the rough cut stone of the garden wall.


	2. A Date and a Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wirt asks Sara on a date. It doesn't go exactly as planned. Also, his stepfather really needs to stop leaving his razors everywhere, and Greg has this whole game figured out already.

Wirt felt different. He felt strange. There wasn’t a word to really encompass the kind of different that he felt, but it was there. A strangeness in his chest, in his throat, like his body had shifted somehow, or his skin had shrunk tight across his bones. He brushed it off for a few days, attributing it to the trauma of the final fight with the Beast and of nearly drowning right afterwards.

 

The first really strange thing that happened to him was about two weeks after he and Greg had been released from the hospital. Greg was down the hall in his bedroom playing with his frog, and Wirt was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. He reached into the cabinet to grab his toothpaste, and accidentally brushed his fingers across his stepdad’s razor. He pulled his hand back with a muffled hiss of pain, and watched in annoyance as three neat lines of blood welled up from his finger, and soon it became clear that everything in his life was awful and his finger was not going to leave it at a few drops of blood, and was really determined to just bleed for the rest of his life. He fumbled through some drawers and cabinets one-handed, looking for a band-aid, but there weren’t any. Eventually, he gave up and wrapped the finger in toilet paper until he could find something better. Little dots of blood soaked through to the outer layer, but he figured he was set for a couple of minutes. He brushed his teeth as best he could, and went downstairs.

 

“Mom, do you know where the band-aids are?” he called out.

 

“Yeah, they’re in the drawer next to all the chargers in my office,” she replied from her bedroom. “What’dya need them for? Is Greg okay?”

 

“Yeah,” he sighed, pulling open the drawer. “It’s not like _I_ ever get hurt or anything.” He opened the box of bandages, and started to unwrap the paper from his finger. “It’s not like your stupid husband leaves his razors in bathroom cabinets where anybody could get cut, I mean honestly- wait, what?” He stared at his hand in disbelief. Where less than five minutes ago there had been blood and torn skin, there was now a hale and healthy human finger. No trace of the cuts remained. Wirt would have thought that he had imagined it if it weren’t for the specks of blood on the tissue. He shook his head, confused, and decided that he would think about it later. He had to get to school.

 

(Upstairs in his bedroom, Greg stacks boxes and chairs up on top of each other like a strange domestic Tower of Pisa, climbing up it to the very top. He knows he won’t get hurt, knows it in the simple and profound way that children know things, can sense things. A few minutes of pain as the broken bones reset themselves is worth the beautiful swooping sensation in his stomach as he falls).

 

Wirt asked Sara if she can listen to the tape at his house after school that day. They hadn’t been able to do it sooner because of the constant checkups at the hospital to see if his lungs were okay, plus the forced overnight stay, and then all of Sara’s clubs and after school obligations got in the way. But now, here they were, walking to Wirt’s house together.

 

(A couple miles away in the hospital, a couple of doctors review some files on recently released patients. One of them frowns and taps on a chart in her colleague's hands.

 

“No, no, no, this isn’t possible,” she says. “You punched in their core temperatures at around 70 degrees Fahrenheit, what the fuck, Keats.”

 

“It must have been a mistake,” Keats answers, equally puzzled. “If they were really that temperature internally, they’d be dead, or close to it.”

 

“Yeah. You must have meant 90.”

 

“Yeah. I must have. It was a late night.”)

 

“You know, people are spreading some really weird rumors about you, Wirt,” Sara said teasingly as they walked down the sidewalk.

 

“Oh-oh yeah?” he stammered, confused. “What kinds of rumors?”

 

“They’re saying that you and Greg are zombies or some shit like that. I dunno. I haven’t really been paying attention to them,” she said (she lied).

 

“Well, we’re not, obviously, ahaha,” Wirt laughed, then winced. _Wow, that was really forced, good job, Wirt._

 

“Ha, yeah,” she said. “This is your house, right?”

 

“Uh huh,” he said, starting up the walk. “I’ll get my player ready. You just- uhh… just put your coat anywhere!”

 

As he ran up the stairs, feeling a little nervous and a little scared, he repeated one sentence over and over to himself in his head: _This is going to be a good date._

 

It was not a good date. When he tried to hold her hand, she flinched and jerked away, looking at him strangely. He looked back at her, confused. After maybe a minute of awkward staring, she turned away. When he offered to walk her home, she said thanks, but no thanks, and walked away into the night, hugging her jacket closer to her body. Wirt sighed, closing the door. _Did you really believe that it could happen any other way?_ he asked himself. The answer, he knew, was no.

 

When he got back inside, Greg was jumping up and down in the foyer.

 

“How did it go? Is Sara your girlfriend now? Are you gonna get married? Are you gonna have kids? Whoa- am I gonna be an Uncle? Are your kids gonna have kids? Am I gonna be a great uncle? Are you gonna make me dinner? Dad’s out jogging and Mom says she needs a lie down. I’m hungry. Is Sara coming to dinner?”

 

Wirt blinked, unprepared for the onslaught of questions, but tried to answer them as best he could. “Uhh… Bad, no, no, no, no, no, no, okay, no. In that order.”

 

“Awww what?” Greg sighed. “I was really ready to be a great uncle. I had this idea where I could smash ‘great’ and ‘uncle’ together, and make a new word!”

 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure somebody’s already done that, Greg. Do you want macaroni or stir-fry? Because that’s what we've got.” Wirt started to head into the kitchen, but hardly made it three steps. Something was caught on his sweater sleeve. “Greg, get off me.”

 

“I’m not touching you!” his brother insisted, holding up both empty hands as proof. One of them was completely covered in blue marker.

 

“Then what’s on my- aaahh!” Wirt yelled, looking down at his arm in horror. One of the leafy vines on the devil’s ivy by the door had wound itself around his arm when he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but as he watched it began to wind its way further up him, towards his shoulder and neck. Needless to say, he freaked out. He tore himself away from the plant, and backed further down the hallway. He could feel himself starting to hyperventilate. “Oh my god. Oh my god. It- the- the plant- oh my gosh.”

 

“Wirt! Wirt, it’s okay. See?” Greg said. “It just wants a friend!” He started giggling as the ivy, robbed of Wirt’s arm to hug, slowly started it wind itself around Greg’s wrist. That image was definitely worse. It reminded Wirt too much of snow, and cold, and having splinters dig into his fingers as he- no. No. Not now.

 

“Greg,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Get away from that plant.”

 

“You’re not my mom,” Greg replied, but it seemed more like an observation than a snarky retort. He moved away from the plant. “Can we have macaroni now?”

 

“Uh. Y-yeah. Just. Just give me a second to- to adjust, okay?” Wirt said, keeping his eyes on the now-motionless devil’s ivy. It was doing a remarkable job of acting innocent.

 

“Adjust to what? The plant thing’s been happening for. I dunno. Decades, probably. Since we got back,” Greg said nonchalantly, walking into the kitchen.

 

“Seriously? And you never bothered to tell me?” Wirt said indignantly, following his brother.

 

“I thought you knew!”

 

“Whatever. Hand me the macaroni box.”

 

They laughed and talked over their dinner, about Greg’s first few days back in second grade, about how he had liked Ms. Langtree more, about animals, about bluebirds, about frogs. It was good, and soon Wirt had put his disastrous date almost completely out of his mind.

 

(A few blocks away, Sara pulls out her cell phone with shaking hands and calls her friend Kathleen.

 

“You were right,” she says, and she sounds like shes about to cry. “You were right. He’s different.”)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha i LIVe hello folks this is definitely gonna be a multichapter fic and basically the layout is: you know the story from an outsider's perspective, but here it is in more detail from Wirt and Greg's. now all your questions (which im just assuming you have) will be answered! or maybe they won't be. maybe i just really like writing Wirt. 
> 
> i should update every few days or so. follow me on tumblr at dumbkili.tumblr.com for more updates as well as premium shitposting


	3. Notetaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wirt does some research, and does some experiments (with Greg's help, of course).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a semi-vivid one sentence description of a broken leg so if that is iffy here is a warning

Over the first couple weeks after the day with the razor and the plant, Wirt researched furiously. Near death experiences, “back from the dead” claims, Egyptian and Greek myths on the afterlife… none of them matched the Unknown, and none of them matched what he and Greg were experiencing now. Still, he took diligent notes in a notebook he’d bought specially for this, and compared and contrasted everything before he discounted it. Banshees? Well, sure, Greg could be loud, but he never screamed, and certainly not before someone was about to die. Poltergeist? No, they were both corporeal. Incubus? Oh, jeez, _no_.

Within a couple of days, his room had become a cluttered, note-filled mess. He had stacks of library books on his bed and his dresser, notes strewn all over his desk, and he was getting tunnel vision from staring at his computer screen for so long (but he wasn’t tired. He hadn’t slept in two days, and he wasn’t tired. That made him worried). His mom sighed as she passed by his room.

“Wirt, what are you doing in here? Have you even slept?” she asked, standing in the doorway.

“Yeah,” he mumbled in reply. “Slept las’ night.”

“In that bed?” she demanded, staring at the mound of books, laundry, and sheets of notes covering it.

“Uh… yes?” The yes curved up at the end like a question, and his mom sighed.

“Just… promise me you’ll sleep tonight, okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

Maybe it was time to take a break. Or just give it up altogether. It was clear by this point that whatever was happening to them, whatever they had become, he and Greg were something entirely new. They would have to discover exactly what that something was on their own.

So, they experimented. Greg had already been trying things out for a couple weeks, testing his limits and his abilities as much as a young child can (which is to say, a lot). His method was mostly “I’m gonna do this thing and if I don’t die, great”. Wirt had a more organized system. He made a list of abilities (he called them symptoms) and tested them one at a time, recording each experiment in a notebook and hiding the book under his bed whenever he wasn’t using it.

(Their mother wonders why Sara never comes over anymore, or why the other moms at the elementary school never ask if Greg wants to hang out with their kids. For a second, she thinks about the rumors- she more than anyone knows the truth in them. The boys barely sleep, they barely eat, and their skin is cold and pale… she doesn’t allow herself to go any further down that road).

Wirt took Greg out to the park every Saturday for tests. The first time they went, Wirt was at a bit of a loss for how to begin.

“What do you wanna do ex-spear-mints on first, Wirt?” Greg said. He was doing a strange hop-skip-step combination as he walked, and it was attracting stares from the people around them. At least, that’s what Wirt assumed.

(A child begins to cry as her mother drags her away from the tree she was about to climb.

“It’s not safe to be here, honey,” the woman insists, staring at the brothers. “We need to leave.”)

“I dunno. What’s the first thing you noticed was weird when we got back?” Wirt asked. For once, Greg was ahead of the game.

“Well…” Greg said, deep in thought. “Well… there was that one time… I skinned my knee. And it really hurt for a second but then…”

“But then what?” Wirt pressed, but he already knew the answer.

“Then poof!” Greg exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “No more blood! It was all better!”

“Huh,” Wirt said, writing it down. “Yeah, I think that’s happened to me as well. Is it just flesh wounds, though? Could you like, I dunno, break a bone and have it heal?”

“Oh! Yeah! Watch this!” Greg exclaimed. He ran towards a tree just off the path and began scaling it before Wirt even knew what was happening.

“Wait- what- oh my god. O-oh my _god_ Greg, _no_! I didn’t mean _literally_ oh _god_ -” Wirt stammered, starting to run. Greg had gone for an old oak tree, with lots of twists and knots in its trunk. It was very easy to climb, and by the time Wirt reached the base, Greg was already nearly eight feet above the ground, and getting higher. Wirt began to scramble up the tree after his brother. He might have been taller, but Greg was faster and better at climbing. He was pulling ahead. Wirt practically flew up the tree, scraping his hands all along the bark. He was so close to grabbing Greg’s ankle, he was _so close_ -

“Watch this, Wirt!” Greg said, and, nearly fifteen feet above the ground, he jumped out of the tree. He made a crunching sound when he landed. Wirt may or may not have screamed.

By the time Wirt had half fallen- half climbed down to the ground, Greg was sitting at the base of the tree, laughing as the last bits of bone and blood tucked themselves neatly back inside his calf. Wirt felt a little faint.

“See, Wirt? It’s all good! We’re kosher,” Greg said triumphantly.

“We’re kosher?”

“Yeah. That’s what the cool old folks say.”

“Okay, Greg,” Wirt laughed (a little nervously), and wrote some more stuff down in his notebook. He sighed, looking at all the empty pages. He had a lot more experiments to do.

  
(Ten years and six months later, their mother finds the book in a dusty corner under her eldest son’s bed in the house he shared with his brother. It’s full of insanity, torn pages and smeared ink, like he was always writing in a hurry with shaking hands. The first few entries look like a list, with little notes to himself jotted in the margins. _Can survive most falls- Can hold breath for up to seven minutes- Blinking unnecessary? Check chemistry of eyes- Resting heart rate=20bpm, slower than any human- Core temperature 70 degrees._ The later entries are less coherent, more jumbled. _Send letter to B- Ask more details of plan? Will it work? Find the hat. Frog hunting=luck? Check it out tonight. Arrange for time of meet up with B. Will it work? Will it work? Will it work?_ The last page is just that phrase repeated over and over again. _Will it work?_ The now childless mother clutches her son’s journal to her chest, and cries).


	4. Sialia Sialis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween night, one year later. In which there are frogs, graveyards, and mysterious bluebirds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok just a heads up the next update will probably be like friday im sorry my midterms are all screwed around because of the big snowstorm bleh

The first time a bluebird approached Wirt was Halloween, exactly one year after the Unknown. He and Greg were out trick or treating (or really, Greg was) and they weren’t having much luck. The houses always had just-darkened windows, or had just run out of candy, and the adults at the doors that said “Oh, I’m so sorry, boys. Maybe try the next house?” were gripping their candy bowls with white knuckled hands. Wirt knew what was going on (he’d had a year to become intimately acquainted with just how much everyone at school avoided him), but Greg was determined to have as much fun as he could. He was dressed as the same elephant from last year, and had Jason the frog tucked under his arm like always. Wirt had pulled on his old cape, but couldn’t find his hat.

The night was winding down, and they were headed home when Greg suggested walking by the cemetery. Wirt stared at him in disbelief.

“Why on earth would we do that?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Greg said, with signature seven year old charm. “But let’s do it anyway!”

“Okay,” Wirt sighed. He knew it was useless to fight his brother and anyway, he didn’t want to go home just yet. They started towards the graveyard, and Wirt resolutely ignored the people who crossed the street as they approached.

The graveyard was totally deserted this year. No witches gatherings, and no teenagers drinking beer out of soda cans, either. Wirt tugged on the hem of his cape a little bit.

“Greg, what are we even doing here?” he said looking around. “We should go home, it’s kinda cold- no, wait, it’s not.” He sighed again. “Guess that’s not gonna work anymore, huh?”

Greg grinned, setting down Jason and beginning to climb up a large stone angel gravemarker. “Nope! You can’t fool me, big brother.” He climbed up as far as he could, sitting on the angel’s narrow shoulder. “Hey, wanna see me fly?”

“You won’t fly, Greg,” Wirt said, leaning against a tree and looking around. He was used to his brother’s ‘jumping off things’ hobby by now. “But sure, do whatever you want.”

“Alright!” he said, and leaped off of the statue. The frog croaked in concern. Wirt spared him a passing glance.

“Anything broken?”

“Uhhh… just my ankle I think,” Greg said, poking at his leg. “I’ll be a-okay in a couple o’ minutes. Wasn’t that awesome, Wirt?”

Wirt smiled. “Yeah Greg, it was pretty awesome.” he looked around again, and the wall (The Wall) in the distance caught his eye. “Hey, catch up to me when you’re all better, okay? I’m gonna keep walking.”

“Righto, Captain!” Greg said, poking his ankle some more. Wirt shook his head, smiling a little, and set off towards the wall. He wasn’t going to climb it or anything, but he did want to look at it. The thing that changed his life. Or ended it. Maybe. He hadn’t decided yet.

He was standing there, staring at it, when something chirped. He was startled; birds usually avoided him. Why was one so close to him now? He looked around some more, and then it chirped again. There, on top of the wall, was a bluebird. His stomach clenched. He hadn’t seen a bluebird in over a year, not since he held one in his hands for the last time in the middle of winter, with splinters in his fingers from- stop. Focus. A surprised and only slightly hopeful “Beatrice?” forced its way out of his mouth, and the bird chirped again, louder. And then, amazingly, it spread its wings and swooped down to land as a familiar weight on his shoulder.

“You’re not her.” It was almost an accusation, and he immediately felt equal parts stupid and guilty. “Of course you’re not her. She’s not a bird anymore. And she wouldn’t want to be here, even if she was.”

The bird made a weird half-sound, almost like it was agreeing. Wirt looked at it in surprise.

“Can you… understand me?”

Another weird sound. Wirt grinned.

“Are you from the Unknown?”

The bird chirped, excited. Wirt felt ecstatic. If birds could travel in between, why couldn’t he and Greg? It would be nice to see Beatrice again, and Lorna, and the Woodsman.

“Can you take me there?”

The bird looked almost like it was going to agree (or maybe he was projecting), but then the bells on the church began to toll. One, two, three. The bird jumped, startled, and leaped off of Wirt’s shoulder, flying over the wall as fast as it could. It sent back an almost apologetic chirp over its shoulder, but it didn’t stop. Four, five six tolls now.

“Wait!” Wirt cried, reaching upwards, trying to catch something that was already gone. Seven, eight, nine rings gone. He heard a distant splash of water from beyond the wall. Ten, eleven. He sank down to the ground, knees drawn up to his chest. Twelve rings of the bell, and it was midnight. Halloween was over. He buried his head in his hands and didn't move. That’s where Greg found him, a few minutes later.

“Hey Wirt I think we should probably go soon ‘cuz it’s midnight and the last time we were out past midnight Mom was really mad at us so we should go home I think,” he said. The frog was tucked into his pants, but Wirt didn’t have the energy to tell him to take him out.

“Mom wasn’t mad, Greg. She was scared. Because we almost drowned. Do you remember that?” Wirt said, a little annoyed. “We almost drowned and then we didn’t and now nobody in this town trusts us or likes us, and our only friends are stuck a whole world away!” He was nearly yelling now. He had come so close- so close! That bird was going to help them, he could _feel_ it. Why had it left? Why? Suddenly he felt very, very tired. Not physically tired, of course. None of that anymore (sometimes he missed it, the stinging bone deep weariness of being human). He wanted to go home and forget everything, to numb his brain out with hot chocolate and a crappy T.V. show. “C’mon, Greg,” He sighed. “Let’s just go home.”

“Okay,” Greg said, sobered by Wirt’s outburst. As they walked, he reached up slowly, and took Wirt’s hand. “It’s gonna be okay, brother o’ mine. Eventually.”

“Yeah,” Wirt agreed wearily. “Eventually.”

(On the other side of the garden wall, a red headed girl slams her fist against a tree in frustration. _That stupid fucking spell,_ she thinks. _Midnight is a god damn stupid time for it to wear off._ Still, it was nice to see Wirt again. Even if he didn’t believe that it was her. She starts the walk back home, kicking a rock in front of her as she goes. _I have to tell them. I have to tell them that they can’t stay. That they don’t belong anymore. They have to know,_ she thinks, and kicks the rock so hard that it skitters off the path and into the darkness of the forest. She’s reminded of the first time she met those boys, on this exact same path on this exact same night. She feels like crying).

 


	5. Out of Left Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday. Another bluebird. A long winded and spirited explanation. Strap in for a helluva lotta dialogue.

“Whoooo!!! Happy birthday, Greg!” Wirt and his parents (both full and step) cheered, surprising the now-8 year old as he came downstairs that morning. He blinked in surprise, but then his face split into a wide grin.

 

“Wow! Oh yeah, it’s my birthday! I’m old!” he laughed, jumping around the kitchen.

 

“Not as old as your brother over here,” his step-dad joked, slinging an arm around Wirt’s shoulders. “Seventeen, bud, how ‘bout that?”

 

Wirt shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s not gonna be my birthday for weeks, and besides, seventeen isn’t that much more than sixteen.” He ducked out from under the man’s arm and scooped up Greg, swinging his around in the air. “Now, eight- eight is very much older than seven, don’t you agree?” Greg made a whooping sound.

 

“Be careful, Wirt!” called his mother. “Don’t drop him, he could get hurt!”

 

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Greg said as Wirt set him down again. “I never get hurt. I’m SuperGreg!” He struck a heroic pose.

 

“Well, even SuperGregs need to go to school,” said Wirt. “C’mon, kid.”

 

“Oh! Wait! I made some cupcakes to take into your class,” said Greg’s dad, grabbing the box from the counter. “I thought maybe it could help you… uh… make some friends?” He glanced at their mother. She glanced back at him. They both glanced at the brothers.

 

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” said Wirt stiffly, gripping Greg’s shoulder. The atmosphere in the room was now positively sub-zero. “Remember the last time you thought Greg should make some ‘friends’?”

 

“Now see here, I don’t think that was really his fault,” their mother interjected. “How could he have known-”

 

“No,” said Greg, screwing up his face in contemplation. “I think it will be good. I’ll carry the cupcakes, Dad.” He took the box and started walking out of the kitchen. “Are you coming, Wirt?”

 

“Yeah,” Wirt answered, grabbing his coat off of the back of a chair. “Let’s go.”

 

A few minutes later, as they were walking along the sidewalk, Greg pulled a cupcake out the box and handed it to Wirt.

 

“Aren’t these for your class?” he asked, but took it anyway.

 

“Nobody in that class will take anything I give them,” Greg said with unexpected frankness. “I just took ‘em so you and I could have a bunch of free cupcakes.”

 

Wirt paused for a second, then laughed quietly. “Nice thinking, little brother. Happy birthday.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Wirt opened his mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by a chirp. “What was that?” he said, looking around. A bubble of hope began to grow in his chest. Was it…?

 

“It’s a bluebird!” Greg cried, tugging on Wirt’s sleeve. “Up there! In the tree! Do you think it’s Beatrice?”

 

“I’m pretty sure it’s not, Greg. She’s not a bluebird anymore, remember?” Wirt said, locating the bird in the branch just above his head. It looked like it had something tied to its leg. “Hey. Bird. Come down here.” The bird looked at him in what seemed like disdain. “Uh… please come down here?” The bird took wing and settled on his shoulder.

 

“It’s got a paper on its leg!” said Greg. “It’s totally Beatrice, Wirt.”

 

“No, it isn’t,” Wirt replied, untying and unfolding the paper. “Here, I’ll read it out loud:

 

_Dear Wirt,_

_You’re probably wondering why this bluebird is carrying a letter addressed to you. It’s because it’s me, genius. Beatrice.”_

“Ha HA!” shouted Greg triumphantly. “I was right!”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Wirt. “If it were really Beatrice, don’t you think it would be able to talk? Ow! Stop that!” The bird was pecking at his ear in an irritating kind of way. “Fine, fine, I’ll keep reading. _I can’t speak because your world is stupid and doesn’t have magic (which I figured out last Halloween), so I wrote this. I hope you won’t be too obtuse about it._ Huh. How about tha- _HOLY SHIT IT REALLY IS BEATRICE_ ”

 

The bird chirped loudly, spreading its wings and hopping up and down excitedly. Greg was doing the same, just with his arms.

 

“Bea-trice, Bea-trice, Be-a-trice!” he sang, running in circles, the cupcake box lying forgotten on the sidewalk. “It’s her! It’s you! Beatrice!” The bird fluttered on top of his head and trilled.

 

“Wow!” exclaimed Wirt. “How did you even get here?” Beatrice looked pointedly at the letter. “Oh. I’ll keep reading. _Ever since you guys left, I’ve worked odd jobs to help support myself and my family. One of those jobs is working as a housemaid for a couple months at that huge tea mansion (mansions?). Margueritte Grey has a lot of books on the Unknown (all written by people who live here, obviously). I’ve been reading them. They differ a lot based on personal experience (this place is way too complicated and it sucks), but here’s something that they all say: you need to come back to the Unknown. You absolutely must. If you don’t, your lives are going to become a lot worse._ ” Wirt looked up from the paper. “Beatrice. What the hell. What are you even talking about, we can’t go back-”

 

“Keep reading!” Greg said, scooping Beatrice up to hold her in his hands. “Come on, what else does it say?”

 

“Ugh, fine. Where were we… oh, yeah. _I’m sure it seems very fun right now, being what you are (the books list super healing among the symptoms of escaping) but all of that is going to bite you in the ass. You weren’t meant to escape, Wirt! Nobody is! The Unknown is the End Of The Line, that’s it, no more do-overs! Staying in ‘your’ world will not grant you fulfillment or happiness. I’m sure you’re already feeling it. You miss sleeping, right? And eating because you’re hungry, not because you feel obligated to?_ ” Wirt stopped reading again. “How did you know all that?” Beatrice jumped from Greg’s hands to his wrist and leaned over to tap the words ‘Margueritte Grey has a lot of books’. “Oh,” said Wirt, and he continued.

 

“ _Every living thing has three main components: mind, body, and soul. You can keep your mind occupied in this world, and you can keep your bodies fed and relatively well maintained (although I imagine that they aren’t working quite right anymore- do the words slow heart rate ring any bells?), but your souls need nourishment too. You’re not in the right world anymore, Wirt. If you don’t get back to where you belong, eventually your souls (yes, Greg’s too) will burn out, and then where will you be?”_ Wirt looked up, meeting Greg’s eyes. For once, the kid seemed to be taking something seriously. Beatrice made an impatient sound. “Okay, okay, I’m reading. You’re kinda laying a lot on us here, Bea. _Once I found out what would happen to you guys, I went to Margueritte’s section of books on magic. I had to find out if there was some sort of spell that could get me over here. Turns out that there isn’t, but the books did say that birds have an easier time traveling between worlds than humans. So, logically, if I could turn myself back into a bird, I could get back to you guys and deliver this message (which I have done). The problem with that plan was that I’m not a witch. I have no magic- but I knew someone who did._ ” Wirt sighed. “Oh man, Bea, please tell me you didn’t-”

 

“Read!” said Greg.

 

“Okay! Geez. _So, in the world’s most ridiculous and embarrassing twist of ironic fate, I went out to find the bluebird that cursed me in the first place. It turns out that she’s a shape-shifting witch (which in hindsight is not very surprising). She listened to my story and agreed that it would be “unfortunate” if you guys died and we didn’t do anything to help you. Because, incredibly, she’s a-okay with cursing me and my family for life but draws the line at letting two dudes die whom she’s never even met. I’m not bitter._ \- Yeah, sure, Beatrice- _She said she’d give me the spell that would turn me into a bird, but that it would only work until midnight on the day I cast it. That’s why I had to leave so quickly last time. It’s basically impossible for humans to travel between worlds when you’re not on the brink of death, and I didn’t want to get trapped. I’m sorry._ ” Wirt stopped again. “Look, Beatrice, I totally accept your apology- I _totally_ do, but what exactly is the point of all of this? You’re giving us a lot of doom and gloom and not a lot of solutions.” Beatrice narrowed her eyes at him and hopped onto his shoulder. “I’m reading! I’m reading! Umm… oh, here it is. _Actually, I should amend that previous statement. It’s basically impossible to travel between worlds unless you’ve done it before and are traveling on the day you did it. This is very important. Do you see how important this is, Wirt? I’m going to peck your face if you’re not reacting appropriately. I will.- OW, BEATRICE- I probably just did it.- Yeah, haha, very funny- Do you understand this? It means that if you and Greg try to world-jump on Hallow’s Eve, you’ll be able to. You’ll be back where you belong. You’ll be alive (as crazy as that sounds). Please consider my offer. I don’t want to lose you, Wirt. Either of you. Please. Come home. -Beatrice_ ” Wirt let out a long breath.

 

“Woooowww,” said Greg, rolling the word around in his mouth. “So… if we don’t go back to the Unknown… we’ll die? For real this time?”

 

“Or something like that,” Wirt agreed, running a hand over his face. “We have to go back?” This was addressed to Beatrice, sitting on his shoulder. She made a weird bird head-nod. “Can it wait? Just for a while? A few years, maybe?” She shrugged. Or at least he thought she did. Her face seemed to say _"It's your call"_. “It’s just… we need to finish school. Or get pretty close. I’m not gonna have Greg growing up with a fourth grade education.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“No, seriously, Greg, you gotta get at least halfway through high school,” Wirt said. He sighed again. “Okay. You’re gonna be late for school. Beatrice, I know your spell expires at midnight, but all we’re gonna be doing today is sitting in class. Kinda boring, and no time to talk. You wanna head home?” She chirped in affirmation, and then again in goodbye, before taking wing and flying in the direction of the cemetery.

 

“Huh,” Greg said. “So that happened.”

  
“Yeah,” said Wirt, bending down to pick up the cupcake box. “We’ve got a lot to think about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. wow! i hope that answered some questions. i basically mapped out all the mythos and rules of this universe so if u ever get confused in future all answers are right here in bea's letter. girl does her research, man


	6. It's Not Like Dress-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A time jump and a few arguments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha i LIED the chapter isnt out friday it's out NOW strap in kids i just ate three bags of diet popcorn and i wrote ANGST yes yes i did i did it here it IS

The next few years passed by in a blur for Wirt. Beatrice visited every few months, to get updates and to badger Wirt on how long he was putting off the move. He’d taught her Morse code out of a book, and she picked it up fast, pecking with her beak for short dashes and scratching with her feet for long ones. That way, they could have conversations in real time, instead of through letters. He finished up high school and, unlike his peers, didn’t look into any colleges. He knew that he wouldn’t be around long enough to attend. It hadn’t gone over well with his parents (in fact, they still had fights about it, even though he was nearly twenty-one). A lot of the same old shit about “wasting his potential” got thrown around at every holiday, but he’d learned to deal with it.

 

It was a strange feeling, he sometimes reflected, to suddenly have all the expectations of society stripped away from you in the blink of an eye. He didn’t feel any pressure to get a degree, to get married, to buy a house (although he did buy a house, a small two bedroom out by the cemetery- emphasis on small- , where Greg stayed with him with increasing frequency). He didn’t need health insurance or dental insurance or, really, any insurance. The only thing he needed to do was pay his bills, which he did by selling his poems (mostly by commission to online buyers), and working odd jobs around town. His main stressor was watching out for signs of ‘fading’ (Beatrice’s term, not his) in him and Greg. It was his biggest fear that one day he would just… not exist. That his soul would have burned itself out while he wasn’t looking. He just... didn't know what to look for.

Greg was doing great in school academics-wise. He was head of his class in art and music, and he wasn’t too bad at math and science, either. Socially, though, he was a pariah. He didn’t talk about it much, but Wirt could see it. Whenever he went to pick Greg up from school, he saw in the faces of the teachers and students what he had seen when he had been in school: polite smiles masking suspicion and fear. He knew how much Greg had to be hurting because of it. The brothers were very different people, and Wirt knew that the social exclusion that had barely phased him in high school would be hell on Greg’s extroverted personality.

 

Whenever Wirt tried to confront him about it- ask if he’d been bullied, if he needed his big brother to step in, or whatever, Greg would always say the same thing.

 

“I’m fine, leave it. Besides, we’re gonna be gone soon, right? And then it won’t matter.”

 

_Yeah_ , Wirt would think. _We’ll be gone soon, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch you suffer like this._

“I dunno,” he said to Beatrice one day, as they sat on his (admittedly very small and ramshackle) front porch. “I just think that he needs some friends. He can’t keep going like this.”

 

Beatrice looked at him out of the corner of her eye. _You know_ , she tapped out on the wood of the step, _You could always just come over to my place. My brother David is Greg’s age._

 

Wirt sighed. “Are we really doing this so soon after meeting up again? I haven’t seen you in months. I thought we were catching up.”

 

_Hallow’s Eve is two weeks away_ , she said, ignoring him. _If you don’t go this year, please come next year. I’m worried that you’re stretching yourselves too thin._

 

“No,” said Wirt. “Greg’s not even in high school yet. He’s in seventh grade, for crying out loud! Give us a few more years. We’ve been fine so far, no sickness or- or ‘fading’ or whatever. I promise that we’ll come eventually. Just… not yet.”

 

Beatrice gave him a look. _You’ve been saying ‘a few more years’ for a few years, Wirt. Eventually you’re gonna burn out, you know, even if you don’t believe me quite yet._

“No, no, Bea, I believe you, I do! We’re just not ready yet,” Wirt protested, turning to face her fully. She looked at him again, narrowing her eyes.

 

_Two weeks_ , she said, and flew away. Wirt groaned. Across the street, a teenage girl stared at him, tucking her phone back into her pocket subtly (she thought). He frowned and went inside. He thought kids were over sneaking pictures of him and Greg, but apparently not.

 

Once he was inside, he leaned against the front door, looking around at the house. The kitchen, dining room, and living room were all just one space, with the rickety table and two chairs in one corner, the second hand couch in the next, and the decades-old refrigerator and stove tucked up against the back wall. He sighed. It wasn’t much, but it was his. His and Greg’s, if it was the weekend. Speaking of which- it was a Friday. Greg would be dropping by any minute. He decided to straighten the place up a little bit (not that Greg would care, but it gave him something to do). He put the dirty plates in the rusty sink, and swept the floor. Before long, Greg was letting himself in the front door, and the house looked like less of a death trap.

 

“Hey,” said Greg, dumping his backpack on the couch. It made an alarming creaking sound. “How was your day?” Wirt looked at him carefully. He seemed a little bit off, but he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was different.

 

“It was okay,” Wirt replied. “Beatrice came over for a bit.”

 

“Aw, what!” Greg cried as he flopped into a chair. “I can’t believe I missed her! What’d you guys talk about?”

 

Wirt began scrubbing the plates in the sink, avoiding eye contact. “Oh, you know. Stuff.”

 

“Is she still gonna take us to the Unknown?” Greg asked. Wirt smiled. Greg asked the same question every time Beatrice visited.

 

“Yeah, Greg. We’re still going.”

 

“Okay. Good,” Greg said, pulling out his homework. For a few minutes, there was silence in the house. Wirt kept scrubbing at the dishes, and Greg began doodling a flock of butterflies around his math questions.

 

“Arrrrrre….. we going this year?” Greg said suddenly, dragging out the first word and saying the last bit all in a rush.

 

“What?” Wirt put down the dishes and turned to look at his brother, who was slouched over the table and drawing little flowers all over his forearm, trying to act innocent. “Greg, we agreed on this, like, five years ago. High school first.”

 

“Yeeeeahhhhh I know that but- it’s like. Why don’t we go now? I miss it. And Beatrice is right. We can’t stay here forever, Wirt. What if we die?” Greg seemed to have released a huge flood of internal thoughts and feelings- some of them he may have had for years. “I really really really wanna go this year, Wirt. Really bad! Nobody likes us here. The kids at school ignore me and talk about me behind my back and- and I miss Beatrice! Talking Beatrice, not- not this non-talking version.” Greg took a deep breath, visibly debating saying the next bit, before deciding to go ahead with it. “And we’re fading, Wirt. We are. I’ve seen it, in you and in myself.” He snuck a glance at his brother. Wirt was staring straight ahead, gripping a plate in his hands. He was holding it so tight it was in danger of breaking.

 

“We’re not. We- we’re fine, Greg. It’s all in your- your- in your head,” Wirt stammered out, finally turning back to the sink. “Do your homework.”

 

“It’s not all in my head!” exclaimed Greg, standing up. “You know it’s not! You’ve felt it, haven’t you? This- this ache, almost, this achey feeling right in your chest. You know what I’m talking about, Wirt.”

 

Wirt slammed the faucet off, and then let out a long sigh. “I’m going to take a nap.”

 

“We don’t take naps, Wirt! We don’t do any of that! Or did you forget that we’re not human anymore? Did you forget that we’re just pretending?” Greg said, gradually losing volume and momentum with every word. His next sentence was barely above a whisper. “How long can we keep the game going?”

 

Silence fell again, smothering and oppressive. Wirt hugged his arms to himself and scrunched up his shoulders, a nervous tic that he hadn’t managed to shake since he developed it in middle school. Greg twisted his hands together and apart again, together and apart. Finally, Wirt broke.

 

“High school. Just make it to high school, Greg. You don’t have to go all the way, I promise.”

 

“Okay,” said Greg. He plopped down in his chair again and began to actually work on his pre-algebra problems, navigating around the army of butterflies he’d inked across the page. Wirt ran a slightly shaking hand through his hair.

 

“I’m sorry, Greg,” he said, his voice a little croaky. “You really didn’t deserve this. I- I mean- you grew up with this, with this condition, you know? You didn’t have very long to be a normal kid. You shouldn’t have to deal with this I- I should have-”

 

“You shoulda what, Wirt? Left me in the Unknown to become a tree? Put my soul in the lantern?” Greg said, looking up. “This was our only option. You did the right thing, brother.” He stood up slowly, and walked over to where Wirt was standing. “You did good,” he said, and hugged him. Wirt sighed, resting his chin on Greg’s head (although he was getting a little tall for that) and wrapped his arms around his brother in return.

 

“Thanks, Greg.”

 

“No problem, Captain. But you know we gotta go back soon, right?”

 

“Yeah,” said Wirt, closing his eyes. “I know.”

 

 


	7. The Last Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV switching! Older brothers! Plot development! This chapter really has it all, folks.

It was a Friday, and Greg was nearly alive with excitement. To be more specific, it was Friday, on Halloween night, he was in 10th grade (half way through high school, thank you very much) and he was going to go plead his case to his brother that very afternoon. It would be a very moving, convincing speech. He had it all planned out in his head.

 

“I mean, come on, it’s time,” he’d say, and Wirt would nod and agree and they’d go out to the cemetery and just… _go_. And it really was time, too. It was getting harder and harder to exist, and he meant that literally. The ‘fading’ sensations had only accelerated over the years, and now Greg felt like he and Wirt were just hanging on the edges of the world. Food had less taste, sleeping was harder. Their hearts had begun to slow even more, and their skin was growing paler. Greg truly felt that if they didn’t leave tonight, they wouldn’t make it until next year. He sighed, walking a little faster. He’d convince Wirt this year. He would.

Greg had had a pretty interesting life so far, for a fifteen year old whose only experience outside of his hometown was the occasional weekend trip to the beach. He’d broken and healed nearly every bone in his body, he had an (admittedly aging) pet frog, and he knew for a fact that no other kid in his class had drowned, nearly turned into a tree, and been brought back to life. Yeah, you could say his life had been pretty interesting- but that didn’t make it _fun_. He couldn’t wait to get back to where he belonged- where all the action was. The Unknown.

He sighed, kicking a rock between his feet like a soccer ball as he walked home from school. Sorry, not home- Wirt’s house. Same thing. The rock bounced off the sidewalk, and down a steep incline into the woods. He considered climbing down to get it, but then decided not to in favor of hurrying along.

There was Wirt’s house, at the end of the block. He groaned in frustration when he saw the usual Halloween gang of nervous thirteen year olds lurking across the street, hoping for a sneaky picture. They were huddled in a cluster exactly across from Wirt’s front door, iPhones at the ready, trying to act like they were just hanging out. Greg grinned suddenly as an idea came to him- it was never the wrong time to have a bit of fun, and this was his last day on earth (probably). Damn it if he wasn’t going to go out with style. He quickly brushed his hair out of his eyes and approached the group, trying to look casual and totally not like a creepy ghost kid.

“Hey guys,” he said, hands in his pockets. They all jumped at the sudden intrusion. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Who’re you?” one of the kids demanded, clutching his phone in front of him like a shield.

“I’m a sophomore at the high school. What’re you seventh graders doing around here?” Greg asked again, drawing himself up to his (considerable) full height. The kids stepped back a little.

“We’re just takin’ pictures,” one of them mumbled, ducking her chin. “And we’re not in seventh grade.”

“Oh yeah?” said Greg, trying not to laugh. Now was the time to act serious. “So, eighth, then?” None of the group responded. “What are you even taking pictures of?”

“The guy that lives in that house,” said the first guy, looking a little braver. “Him and his brother. The people around here say they’re ghosts. Or- or something like that.”

“No offense, dude, but have you ever actually even seen these guys?” Greg asked, allowing a little bit of a laugh to creep into his voice. “I mean, do you even know they exist? That they’re not some lame urban legend fed to you by your big siblings or whatever?”

“Yeah, we do!” said another kid. “We just saw one- just now!”

“And what was he doing? Spooky ghost dude stuff, like taking out the trash?” asked Greg, laughing outright now. Honestly, the thought of Wirt being ‘spooky’... it really cracked him up.

“No, man, laugh all you want, but we saw something,” insisted the first guy. “He was talking to a bird, man! Like, straight up talking to it!” That sobered Greg up quickly.

“Wait, wait- dude. He was talking to a bird? A bluebird?” he said, making eye contact with the kid.

“Uh, yeah, I think so-”

“And the- the bird. Did it fly away? Or is it still here?”

“No, man, that’s the really weird part- he took it inside with him!”

Greg let out a loud whoop of delight and excitement. “Yes!” he shouted, punching the air. The group of kids took another step back, extremely confused. “Oh, man, thank you! You have no idea how good that news is!” he cried, and rushed forward to give the kid a hug. If Beatrice had stayed- if Wirt had taken her inside- it could mean he'd finally,  _finally_ agreed.

“Hey, man, what the hell- get offa me- HEY!” the kid shouted, but Greg was already gone, running across the street as fast as he could. “Hey, guy! Don’t go over there! It’s not safe!”

“I live here, dummy!” Greg shouted over his shoulder. “I’m the ghost kid! Happy Halloween!” And he slammed the door. Inside, Wirt was sitting at the scratched table with Beatrice in front of him. She was just finished tapping out something- Greg caught the letters _G, H_ , and _T_.

“Oh, hey Greg-” Wirt started to say, but was interrupted by Greg’s yell of “BEATRICE!” as he scooped her up into a gentle hug. She twittered a little like she was annoyed, but they all knew she was happy to see him too.

“Greg, let her down. Don’t hurt her,” Wirt said. He had just turned twenty-four and, in Greg’s opinion, held the gold medal for World’s Biggest Adult Worrywart (or worry-Wirt. Heh). “You wanted to tell him, right Bea?” She nodded excitedly. Greg set her down on the table again, practically vibrating in anticipation. He thought he knew what she was going to say, and he couldn’t wait.

Beatrice looked between the both of them, drawing out the moment. Then, carefully, deliberately, she began to tap out the message.

_Wirt says you guys can leave tonight._ She looked at Greg expectantly. He was nearly frozen in shock, but a smile was slowly spreading across his face. _You’re leaving tonight!_ she repeated for emphasis, and then abandoned the Morse code in favor of hopping across the table and chirping happily. Greg turned to Wirt for confirmation, and when he got it in the form of a head nod, he let out a yell of excitement that could be heard from down the block.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, are you serious? You’re serious! Oh my gosh, you’re serious,” he babbled, jumping up and down. “Oh my gosh, Wirt!” He grinned so wide is almost hurt his face. “Wait a sec, I gotta tell somebody about this.”

“What?” asked Wirt, and Beatrice looked just as confused.

Greg ran to the front door and swung it open. “Hey, you lame kids! Yeah, you! Take your pictures now, suckers, ‘cuz we’re getting the heck outta here! Whooo!” And he slammed the door again. “So, when do we leave?” he asked the amused faces (both human and bird) in front of him.

“About nine thirty,” Wirt said, sitting down on the couch. “Take a seat, kiddo, we’ve got a couple of hours to kill.”

_I’d suggest taking a nap_ , Beatrice said. _In my experience, traveling between worlds can be very tiring._

__

“But we don’t _get_ tired,” Greg insisted. “What’s the point?”

_Trust me. You will be tired. You can make yourself sleep, right? Even if you don’t have to?_

__

“Yeah, we can,” said Wirt.

_Then do it. I don’t have time for you yahoos falling asleep as we walk back to my house!_

“Well, you’re the expert, Beatrice,” Greg conceded reluctantly. “Make sure to set your alarm, Wirt. We don’t want to miss it,” Greg said, visibly bottling up his energy and sitting down on the couch.

“Okay,” Wirt said, equally as excited, but doing a much better job at hiding it. “Get comfy, brother.” Greg scooched closer to his brother, tucking his legs up onto the couch. Beatrice hummed and hawed for a second before fluttering over to settle on top of Wirt’s head. It was so much like old times that Greg felt a little emotional.

“I can’t believe we’re going back,” he whispered into the silence of the house. The setting sun painted red brushstrokes across Wirt’s dingy floor. Everything looked more beautiful for some reason, now that he was seeing it for the last time.

Wirt shook his head slightly, careful not to dislodge Beatrice. “I can’t either, little brother.”

Slowly, Greg drifted off to sleep. Wirt sat there, asleep as well, for a few hours, before he woke himself up, letting out a long breath and carefully disentangling himself from Greg. He placed Beatrice on his sleeping brother’s shoulder. She opened one eye curiously, but he shook his head slightly and she closed it again.

He went into his bedroom and knelt down beside his bed, reaching an arm underneath and feeling around under his hand landed on something rectangular and dusty. His notebook. He slid it out from under the bed, blowing the dust off the cover. Huh. He hadn’t used it in months, not since Beatrice had last come over. She’d asked him to try and send letters to her- it was really inconvenient to become a bird just so she could talk to him, she’d said, and he’d agreed. Plus, they had needed to discuss the plan more. _Send letter to B_ was scribbled in a corner on the third to last page.

They’d been planning this surprise for Greg for a while. He’d agreed way back in February when Beatrice visited that this would be the year they left for good, and they’d decided together that it would be fun to make it a big thing, kind of. But Beatrice hadn’t been able to visit until Halloween, and sending letters had proved to be impossible. So they’d had to plan it very quickly in the hour they had in between Beatrice’s arrival and Greg’s- no time for a banner or balloons or anything, like Beatrice had wanted. She was so excited about it all, and Wirt was, too. He was just… more quiet about it. More realistic about it, really.

His was a slightly different situation than Greg’s or Beatrice’s. Beatrice’s only objective for nearly ten years had been to get him to agree to come back, and now she’d done it. She wasn’t thinking about the potential consequences of two people just up and disappearing out of the blue. Greg wasn’t either. He was just a kid. But Wirt- Wirt was an adult. He knew that this was going to kill his parents. He knew there’d be searches, and missing posters, and news broadcasts, and all of that. He knew. But he also knew that those things were unavoidable. They simply could not stay in this world any longer.

He sat down at the table, rubbing at his chest a little and wincing. The ache there, in his heart- which, in past years, had faded in and out, some days weak, some strong- was ever-present. It stung and throbbed and burned all at once. It was hell. He knew it wasn’t physical, but that didn’t stop him from hating it (and sometimes taking heartburn medication, which did nothing). He sighed, opening the notebook to the last page and uncapping his pen. He needed to get his affairs in order.

An hour later, he was finished. For all the time it had taken to think of and organize and write, the letter was surprisingly short, just barely filling the page. He ripped it out of the notebook and folded it carefully, before tucking it under the tea kettle. He left a corner sticking out so that anyone walking through the kitchen would see it.

Sighing, he sat down again and began making a to-do list for their final hours in this world. The things they’d need, and all of that. He was glad he’d left them a couple hours in between waking up and midnight. He began to think. He’d have to find his hat and cape. It’d be weird going into the Unknown without them. It was probably in his parents’ attic. He wrote down _Find the hat_. Speaking of his parents’ house- Greg would definitely want to take Jason with them. He hoped Greg had the keys with him, or they’d have to break in. He jotted down something that he hoped related to frogs. He wasn’t really focused, half lost in memories and his lingering dreams- or had they been nightmares? This was why he didn’t like sleeping. It was so confusing once you woke up.

_Is this even going to work?_ he thought to himself. _Or are we all just crazy? And if we are, are we crazy to believe it’ll work, that we’ll be back… or crazy enough to believe that we have no choice? Will it work? Or is this some weird accidental suicide waiting to happen?_

His pen kept scratching across the page, the same pattern repeated over and over. _Will it work… will it work…_ He sighed, resting his head on the table. This was all so _complicated_. He sat there for the next several minutes, until his alarm started to buzz.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, ive got the last chapters pretty much all mapped out. it looks like there's gonna be 9 in total, maybe an epilogue as number 10. havent decided yet. thanks for reading! i love you all


	8. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farewells are made. Everything is bittersweet. It is so hard to write emotions.

The cell phone alarm woke Greg up. The comforting weight of Wirt by his side was gone, but it had been replaced by Beatrice, settled into the crook of his neck.

“Wirt?” he called quietly. “Where are you?”

“I’m just over here,” came Wirt’s voice from the table. Greg turned his head carefully. Beatrice stayed asleep.

“What’re you doing?”

“Just writing something,” said Wirt, snapping his notebook closed, a little guiltily.

“What’s that? A poem?” Greg slurred out.

“Nah, it’s nothing important. C’mon, you lazy sacks of potatoes, get up and get moving!” Wirt said, poking Beatrice until she woke up with an annoyed trill, and tugging at Greg’s arms so that he stood up. “C’mon, c’mon, we gotta go!” He ducked into his bedroom to put the notebook away, and Greg stood by the door, rubbing his eyes.

“Ugh,” said Greg, looking at Beatrice. “Waking up in the middle of the night is so hard.” She chirped in commiseration. A couple of minutes passed before Greg began to tap his foot impatiently. “Wirt! Are you coming?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Wirt, hurrying out of his bedroom. “C’mon.”

Wirt gave one last glance around his house. It was small and nearly empty, and the moonlight coming in from the window made the furniture seem unfamiliar and strange. Then he shook himself out of it, pulled open the door, and they left the house for the last time.

It took about twenty minutes to get to their parents’ house, alternating between running and walking. The streets were nearly deserted at this late hour, and the recent rain made the pavement glitter and glow with the light of the stars and the windows of the houses. As they walked, Wirt briefed Greg on what they needed to do.

“Get in, grab your frog and my stuff, and get out. That’s it. We gotta try not to run into Mom or your dad at all, okay?”

“Okay,” said Greg, biting his lip. “Wait, Wirt- we gotta say goodbye to Mom! We gotta! And Dad, if we can.”

Wirt shook his head. “We can’t, Greg. Trust me, I wanna see them as well, but they can’t know that we’re leaving. They’ll try to stop us.”

“I guess you’re right…” Greg conceded, looking down at the ground. “Oh. We’re here.”

They stood on the porch of the house they had grown up in. Their parents had decorated it with the usual Halloween paraphernalia- jack o’ lanterns, plastic skeletons, orange and black streamers, and the like. It reminded Greg of Pottsfield, strange, half-faded memories of a looming pumpkin and a dancing skeleton spinning through his mind. He took a deep breath. Greg dug his keys out of his pocket and opened the door. It was dark in the house. Maybe his parents were asleep. They crept down the front hall and began to climb the stairs, skipping over the ones that they knew creaked. Beatrice sat silently on Wirt’s shoulder.

Greg’s room was at the end of the second floor hall, and the pull-down door to the attic was in the middle of the ceiling right next to it. They would have to walk right past his parent’s bedroom. The brothers shared a look. This was gonna be tough.

They were just psyching themselves up to make a dash down the hall when their mother walked out the bathroom. She saw them immediately.

“Wirt? Greg? What the hell are you two doing here?” she asked. “And with a bird?”

_Crap,_  Greg thought. He looked at Wirt, hoping he had a plan.

“Uh,” said Wirt, looking at Greg. He did not, evidently, have a plan. Greg sighed. _I guess it’s up to me._

“Hi, Mom!” he said cheerfully. “Sorry to bother you this late but… ugh, this is really embarrassing… I kinda…  forgot my pajamas here. We thought we’d just pop over and… um… grab them?” He ended with a big smile, hoping she’d be thrown off. She was.

“Um- I mean. Well. Greg, seriously? You need to keep track of your things more,” she said. “And I can’t believe that you broke into our house-”

“I have keys, Mom,” Greg reminded her.

“Yes, well,” she said, a little flustered. “You still haven’t explained the bird.”

_Oh yeah,_ Greg thought, and winced. Beatrice chirped a little (unhelpfully). “Um…” he said, unable to think of an explanation. Wirt jumped in.

“It’s. Um. It’s my, uh, my pet bird,” he stammered. Their mom raised an eyebrow.

“Your _pet bird_?” she repeated, unconvinced. “Since when do you have a pet bird?”

“Uh- it’s… well, I got it very recently, and, um, the lady at the petstore said to, um, to try and spend as much time with it as possible to… to bond… with it?” Wirt said, tripping over his tongue too much to be convincing. Their mom sighed.

“If you won’t give me a straight answer, fine. You’re an adult, do whatever you want. Greg, honey, why don’t you go grab whatever it was you needed to grab?”

“I’ll get it,” said Wirt. “Greg, go wait downstairs. Take Beatrice with you.” Greg nodded and took Beatrice off of Wirt’s shoulder.

“You named your bird Beatrice?” their mom asked, then shook her head and sighed again. “Ugh, it is too late to be dealing with this. C’mon, Greg, I’ll wait with you downstairs.” Greg looked at his brother, widening his eyes meaningfully. This had not been part of the plan. Wirt shrugged and mouthed “I panicked” from over their mom’s shoulder. Greg sighed and followed her downstairs again.

Alone in the hallway, Wirt walked right past the bedroom where he assumed his step dad was asleep and straight to the attic door. He reached up and yanked it down. Dust clouds fluttered down around his head- nobody had been up here in a while. He extended and climbed the ladder quickly. Once he was inside the attic, he yanked on the chain that connected to the single flickering light bulb. It turned on, illuminating the small, box-filled space.

He quickly located the box labeled “Halloween Costumes” in his mom’s neat handwriting, and rifled through it. Almost all of the costumes were Greg’s- the tiny dinosaur outfit he’d had when he was two, a set of sparkly wings from that time when he was four and demanded that he wanted to be a fairy, and, weirdly, the teapot that he’d worn for two consecutive Halloweens. Why was it up here? It still worked as a teapot. It was a pretty nice teapot, too. Wirt grimaced as the answer came to him. Why would anybody want to look at the thing that was so intrinsically linked to the time their child almost died? Why would someone want to look at that every day? They wouldn’t. So his mother had shoved it away, up here where she’d never have to think about it again. He took it out of the box. It didn’t belong in this attic- in this world- anymore than he did.

He looked back into the box again, almost giving up hope. He shifted around a wooden sword and shield, and there they were- his cape and hat. He grinned, lifting them out of the box. They were a little dusty, but they would serve. He quickly scooped up his finds, and slid down the ladder. Now for the frog. He closed up the attic and ducked into Greg’s room. It was a mess.

He walked through it, looking at the unmade bed and the piles of clothes on the floor. An easel was propped up against the wall by the window, with an almost finished painting on it. Wirt leaned in for a closer look. It was a forest scene at night, with dark, twisted trees curling their way up to an upside down yellow half-moon. He grinned ruefully. It seemed that the Unknown was always on Greg’s mind. A croak from the corner caught his attention. Jason Funderberker (the frog) was looking at him through the glass of his tank.

“Just the frog I wanted to see,” Wirt muttered, reaching into the tank and scooping him up. “C’mon, guy. We’re going back.”

Another croak, almost like a question.

“To the Unknown, you dumb frog,” said Wirt. God, why did he talk to so many animals? Honestly, it was getting a little ridiculous. “Okay… where can I put you…” He looked around. Greg’s beat-up messenger bag on his desk chair caught his attention. “Perfect.”

He tucked his clothes and Greg’s teapot into the bag and placed Jason in as well. “You gotta be quiet until we’re out of the house, okay?”

The frog croaked in what Wirt hoped was agreement. He pulled the bag over his shoulder and closed it.  He gave the room another once-over to check if he’d missed anything, and then left.

Downstairs, Greg and his mother were talking quietly in the hallway. It didn’t seem to be about anything important, so Wirt didn’t hesitate to interrupt them.

“Hey. I got everything. Are you ready to go, Greg? It’s getting late,” he said meaningfully.

“Oh! Yeah!” said Greg. “Uh… bye, Mom. I love you.” He hugged her tightly. She was a little surprised, but she hugged him back.

“I love you too, Greg. And jeez, put some gloves on or something, you’re freezing,” she said, rubbing his hands. The fingernails were blue. Wirt watched them in silence. Then he gave in and joined the hug, reaching around both of them.

“Love you, Mom. Bye,” he whispered, then pulled himself and Greg away. “We really have to go now.”

“Yeah,” said Greg, his throat closing up. “Bye, Mom. Tell Dad I said hi.”

“Okay,” she said. She was becoming more and more confused by the second. “You boys be safe out there, okay?”

“We will be,” assured Wirt. “C’mon, Greg.”

(Days later, sitting in a cold police station, their mother will say on record that that was the last time she saw them, backlit by the streetlamps and the moon, with the small form of a bluebird fluttering along behind them. She will blame their deaths on herself. Why didn’t she stop them, question them, ask them where they were going? Why didn’t she be a proper mother? Why why why why why… she will ask herself these questions for the rest of her life).

As they walked, Wirt reached into the bag and pulled out Jason.

“Here’s your frog.”

“Alright!” Greg said excitedly, hugging Jason to his chest. “Hey, little guy. How you doin’? Are you excited?” All he got in return was a croak.

“And… uh. While I was looking for my stuff, I found this,” Wirt said, a little awkwardly, and pulled the teapot out. “Do you… um. Want it?”

Greg took the teapot in one hand, turning it and twisting it. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust his voice. Then, still silent, he put it on his head. He was sure it looked just as ridiculous as it had all those years ago, and that was great. That was more than great.

“Thank you,” he said. He looked at Wirt and smiled. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Wirt said, getting a little choked up as well. He tugged on his cape and buttoned it, before shoving his hat on his head. Beatrice landed on top of Greg’s teapot, and chirped. They walked in silence for a few blocks.

As they walked, Greg reflected on things. His art class, his frog, life, death, the cute person of indeterminate gender that sat across from him in Trigonometry… he weighed them all in his head one last time. _Do I really want to leave now?,_ he asked himself, but he knew that the answer was a full, strong _yes_. He hummed a little song, a tune that he’d come up with years ago that had stuck in his mind ever since. It seemed especially relevant today.

“Oh, we’re going to the pasture, to see Adelaide and ask her…” he sang a few notes, his voice dancing through the empty street. Wirt glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing. Beatrice perked up her head a little, and whistled along as Greg sang the next line. “If she has a way to send us back where we came from…”

They were singing it a little too slow and a little too low, but somehow it fit the mood. This walk, unlike the other walks the three had taken together, far away and long ago, was not one of hope and mystery and promise- it was one of peace. Acceptance. They knew exactly where they were going, and exactly what they were giving up by going there.

“I don’t know who she is, or how she is, or when, or why she is…” Wirt joined in, a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. “But as for where she is, she is where we will go.”

(The singing drifts up the street, low and haunting. The more suspicious people whisper of changelings and elf music. The more paranoid turn off their lights and lock their doors. The ghost children are out tonight).

The gates to the Eternal Garden were open. There seemed to be a group of teenagers hanging out in the distance, the lines of their flashlights dancing across the tombstones, but the way to the wall was clear. Nobody went near there anymore. Wirt abandoned the now-empty messenger bag on the arm of an angel, her hands stretched out and her blank eyes gazing to the moon. Now they were just as they had always been, they four. A frog, a bird, and two lost children trying to get home. Only now, home was in the other direction.

Wirt checked his watch. It was only eleven. He sighed. “We can only cross at midnight, right, Bea?”

_Yeah, midnight exactly,_ she confirmed, the pings of her beak and claws breaking the peaceful quiet of the graveyard. _I guess we got some time to kill._

“Alright,” said Wirt. “You know, this whole business seems like a hell of a lot of just sitting and waiting.”

_I’m hungry_ , Beatrice said, almost sheepishly. _Is it okay if I go find something to eat?_

“Oh, totally. Go ahead,” Wirt said. He lowered himself down to the ground, hugging one knee to his chest. “See you in a bit.”

_See you._

Greg slumped down beside his brother, leaning against a gravestone whose name was blurred by time. “Well, at least we got Jason.”

Jason croaked.

“Yeah. At least we have him,” Wirt said, smiling. He slung an arm around his brother. “Hey, Greg?”

“What?”

“You know I love you, right?”

Greg frowned. “Well, duh. Why’re you saying that?”

“In case…” Wirt trailed off. He cleared his throat. “Well… in case this doesn’t work. Or we get separated. I just wanted you to know that- that I love you.”

“Wirt,” said Greg seriously, turning his head to stare his brother straight in the eye. “This is going to work. But, just in case… I love you too.”

They were two brothers at the edge of the world. They were hanging on by their fingernails. People crossed the street and looked the other way to avoid them, but they were together. They had each other. They had Beatrice. They had their frog. They were content.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay on this chapter folks. writing anything even mildly touchy-feely is so hARD


	9. Let the Forest Hear Our Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moon flips the right way up.

Beatrice returned at about 11:50. Her feathers were ruffled and she didn’t seem to have caught anything.

 

“Are you okay?” Wirt asked, helping her up onto Greg’s teapot.

 

_Ugh_ , she said, _Those kids over there by the mausoleum threw rocks at me. **Rocks** , Wirt._

 

“What?!” Greg said angrily. “They tried to hurt you?!”

 

_The people in this town are a bunch of superstitious hicks_ , Beatrice replied. _No offense._

 

“None taken.” Wirt responded, as they began to walk over to the wall.

 

_And, I don’t know, everyone knows that you two like bluebirds, so…_

 

“Oh,” said Wirt. “I’m sorry.” He felt like it was his fault somehow, like he should apologize.

 

_Don’t be ridiculous, Wirt. I’m fine, and we’re leaving now. Climb the damn tree._

 

The tree in question was the same one the brothers had scrambled up ten years ago, trying to get away from the cops. It had very rough bark, and Wirt scraped his hands several times as he climbed. The cuts healed over almost instantly.

 

Once he had reached the top, Wirt sat for a minute as he waited for Greg to catch up. He looked out at the graveyard and, in the distance, the town. The lights from various T.Vs in the windows and LED light bulbs on the streets gleamed in the darkness. He sighed, looking out on it all for the last time. Greg clambered up to sit next to him.

 

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Greg whispered.

 

“In a sense,” Wirt replied. “It’s not where we belong, though.”

 

“No,” Greg agreed. “And the moon’s the wrong way ‘round.”

 

Wirt looked up at the sky and sighed. Greg rested his head on his brother’s shoulder for a second.

 

_C’mon,_ Beatrice said, interrupting the moment. _We gotta hurry. It’s almost midnight._

 

“Shit. You’re right,” Wirt said. He swung his legs around and jumped off the wall, landing with a muffled thud. “Hurry, Greg!”

 

Greg followed him down, landing a little more gracefully. “Beatrice, how do we even do this? How to we make the jump, or whatever?”

 

_The same way you did last time, dummy!_ she said, struggling to remain in place as Wirt and Greg rushed down the steep hill just past the train tracks. _Get in the lake. Swim down to the very bottom. Just keep swimming down, okay? And whatever you do, DON’T-_ she was cut off as she slipped off her perch, saving herself with a flurry of wings and irritated chirps.

 

“Don’t what?” Wirt ask desperately, looking at his watch. It was 11:57. Beatrice shook her head and chirped again. There was no time left. She couldn’t explain. Then she flew high up into the sky, as fast as she could, and tucked her wings tight against her body. She began to fall, faster and faster, aiming her body right into the deepest part of the lake. She hit the water with a splash, and did not resurface. Wirt shouted wordlessly. Greg dove into the lake.

 

“C’mon, Wirt!” he shouted when he resurfaced. “I saw her! She’s down near the bottom. I think that’s where we’re supposed to go!”

 

“Shit,” Wirt muttered, checking his watch. 11:58 exactly. He dove into the water with a splash and began to swim down. He wondered briefly if he would run out of air before he got to the bottom, but dismissed the idea. He and Greg could hold their breath for seven or eight minutes. They’d be fine.

 

He kicked his legs as hard as he could, and pushed through the water with his arms so forcefully that his muscles ached. He had to get down to the bottom. He had to. He turned his head slightly and saw Greg’s tall form going through the same motions, legs scissoring as fast as they could possibly go. Jason the frog was keeping up nicely. Wirt turned his attention back to his own movements, clawing desperately down, down, down to the bottom. His fingers brushed something slimy and fibrous. He pulled his hand back in surprise, but pushed onward. The slimy thing twitched, and began to wind its way around his hand, and them his whole arm, as he kept swimming towards it. He shook it off, but it was soon joined by another, this one latching on to his other hand.

 

_What the hell?_ he thought, straining his eyes in the underwater gloom. _Oh._

 

The things were some kind of underwater plant, which would explain why they were so interested in him. More and more appeared as he swam down, all varying heights and thicknesses. _At least this means I’m getting close to the bottom,_ he thought to himself, peering through the darkness for any rocks or sand. There were none, only darkness. As he kept kicking, he caught a glimpse of his watch. The digital numbers shone through the black, with the damning message of “12:00”.

 

Above the surface of the lake, the church bells began to ring.

 

_One._ The plants, which had been so lazy in their twisting and turning around Wirt’s limbs, suddenly became a lot stronger. They locked around his wrists and ankles like iron chains. he let out a surprised yell which, underwater, came out as only a muffled sound and large bubble of air.

 

_Two._ Water rushed into his mouth and down his throat. He could feel it filling up his lungs, chilling him and killing him from the inside out. He struggled against the slippery plants, but they wouldn’t budge. He had to to make it to the bottom, but he couldn’t.

 

_Three._ The plants locked around his elbows, his knees, his waist. They curled around his neck and they _pulled_.

 

Four, five, six tolls of the bell passed as he kicked and scratched against the plants. They were pulling him down to the bottom of the lake, speeding up as they went, but he was scared. He wanted to get free. He looked around wildly for Greg, for Beatrice, for the damn _frog_ even, but he could see nobody and nothing.

 

_Seven, eight_. He was alone, floating in an inky void of water. Tiny bubbles escaped his lips, the last of his air. He felt nothing, saw nothing except the sinuous forms of the vines and the glowing yellow light of the moon, filtered through the layers of water. He stared up at it as the plants tugged him further beneath the water. It was so far away, and yet so close.

 

Nine tolls gone. The plants pulled him very quickly through a cold patch of water- ice cold. Unbearably cold. He tried to shout again, but nothing came out. No air left. His lungs were filled with the wrong kind of matter. He felt something jolt painfulling in the left side of his chest, something he hadn’t felt in years. His heart. It was beating again, and beating fast. From fear or to make up for lost time, he couldn’t tell, but it gave him hope. Maybe he was almost there.

 

Ten tolls, and he realised that he had to breathe. His lungs were screaming and swimming in lake water, and he needed to breathe. It was such a strange sensation that he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t cough, he couldn’t spit. He could only kick helplessly against the water and hope that he could make it out. it would be a shame to die now, now that he was finally, viscerally alive.

 

On the eleventh toll he faced the moon and sky again. His vision began to blur and his head was pounding and spinning. The moon was upside down- or was it right side up? Which side was wrong, and which was right? He couldn’t remember anymore. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t even breathe.

 

As the bells in the church tower tolled for the twelfth time, Wirt’s eyes slipped shut. His hands unclenched, floating in the water gently, a parody of relaxation. He could feel himself slipping away from his mind, from his body even. His cheek brushed one of the wet leaves of the vines and then it moved away, slowly, as if it were saying goodbye. He used his last bit of energy to turn his head, just slightly, and it scraped against something brittle and crunchy and very, very dry.

 

_Wait, what?_

 

His fingers twitched, buzzing and tingling as the blood from his freshly restarted heart filled him. He opened his eyes and found himself level with the floor of a forest. The crunchy things underneath his head were leaves. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the smell of the woods, musty and earthy. He’d done it. They’d done it. They’d made it!

 

Laughter off to his left reached his ears. It was wild laughter, loud laughter, relieved laughter. It was the laughter of someone who had thought they they had lost everything, only to have it returned to them at the last second. He sat up slowly, then turned around to see a woman clutching onto a tree. She had long red hair and was wearing a blue shirt and men’s trousers, and she was the laugher. She looked to be about his age. He smiled. It had been a long time since he’d seen that face, but he’d know that laugh anywhere.

 

“Beatrice?” he said. His voice came out as a shaky whisper. he cleared his throat and tried again. “Beatrice?”

 

The woman stopped laughing and looked at him. She was grinning so wide he thought her face must hurt.

 

“Hi, Wirt.”

 

He stood up, almost not trusting his legs. “It’s been a while. Um. Since I’ve seen you, I mean.”

 

“About five minutes, more like,” she said teasingly, but he could tell she knew what he meant. They looked at each other for a few more seconds before she laughed again. “Oh, just hug me, you great big idiot.”

 

And so he did. She was still taller than him, even after all these years, but that was okay. Greg, who had been taking stock of himself and his frog, joined the hug a few seconds later. They held onto each other, afraid to hurt each other and yet unwilling to let any piece of themselves go. Wirt could feel his eyes and throat burning with unshed tears. Greg’s hands were shaking from leftover adrenaline. Beatrice was still laughing quietly, but it was edged with desperation. None of them could believe that they were together, that they were alive only in the sense that they were free.

 

It was, Wirt thought, a very good ending to a very unhappy story.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left, folks. Thanks for sticking with me to the end of this.


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after they're gone?

They got fished out of the lake two weeks after Halloween. It would have been sooner, of course, if anybody had realized they were missing within the first couple of days. But nobody did. The tall one didn’t show up at his part-time job, and the younger one didn’t show up at school, but nobody noticed. Nobody cared. In fact, people were a little bit grateful (although it’s sad to say it). There were definitely people that thought, _Finally, finally, those monsters are gone._

 

Trawling the lake wasn’t the first step in the case, of course. There were search parties organized (with some reluctance), and posters all around town. It made the news. But eventually, after a week of searching the land with no luck, and with compelling evidence provided by the boys’ mother, the authorities turned themselves to the water. Specifically, the lake.

 

They dragged it for a couple of days, finding nothing, until one day, they hit something. It was a teapot, wedged in the black sand at the bottom of the lake. The police redoubled their efforts, checking everywhere in the water with renewed vigor. And that’s when they found them.

 

The oldest one was tangled in kelp, his body almost completely obscured. The searchers had taken him for a log or a moss-covered rock, but with a second glance it was clear that it was a man. His hands were empty and floating at his sides. He was facing up towards the sky in glassy-eyed peace. When they hauled him out, the searchers found deep red marks on his wrists and legs. His knuckles were scraped up and bruised. He’d struggled, tried to escape, but in the end had been forced to give up, and to give in to the water. It was a damn shame, everybody agreed. A damn shame.

 

The younger one took a little longer to find. He was floating face-down, a few yards away from his brother. His hands were tangled in the kelp, and rigor mortis had locked his fingers tight around the plants. He had been hanging on, not fighting. He had willingly held himself under the water. His eyes were focused out in front of him, almost like he had seen something, down there in the dark. The currents of the lake had battered him around a bit, and his rib was broken, digging into his lung. The coroner said that she believed it had happened before he died.

 

Both bodies were rotted and falling apart. Their faces were more skull than flesh, and their stomachs were eaten hollow by bacteria and animals. It didn’t makes sense. They had only been dead for a few weeks, so why did the level of decomposition match those of ten-year old corpses? The coroner poured over the test results, looking for a mistake, an explanation, but there wasn’t any. According to all the tests available, the two bodies pulled from the lake had died just over ten years ago. They ran DNA tests to confirm the identities of the boys, and it was them. The brothers. Last seen alive and well by their mother two weeks ago, and dead for over ten years.

 

It was perplexing, to be sure. Nobody quite knew what to make of it. Was it a double suicide? An accident? A homicide? Had the older one coerced the younger one, or vice versa? Rumors spread around the town like a virus. Everywhere you went, there was only one thing anybody was talking about: The brothers. There were speculations, connections to urban folklore and myths, and gossip of the worst sort.

 

However, over the course of a few months after the case closed, the brothers faded from the town’s focus. Why talk about those rotten old corpses when there were newer, more interesting stories to tell? Why talk about those dead boys when Mrs. Sullivan from Newport Street was divorcing, and getting engaged to her former husband’s sister? The town moved on, and so did the police department. They didn’t look too hard for an explanation about the times of death. They attributed it to animals, or an imbalance of chemicals in the lake water, or a million other reasons. They didn’t want to think that the tests were right. They didn’t want to believe that those boys really had died that night, so long ago, and got up again right afterwards.

 

Their mother was never the same again, poor dear. She laughed almost never, and smiled just as rarely. She refused to sell her oldest son’s house, or even rent it out. She spent every weekend sleeping over there, curled up on his dusty, aging mattress, rereading his journal, and the letter scrawled on the small scrap of paper she’d found tucked under the teapot.

 

_Dear Mom,_ the letter read.

_If you’re in my house, finding this letter, it means that you’ve discovered that we’re gone. I’m sorry, Mom, but there was no other way. I know you’ve never believed the rumors flying around town, that Greg and I are monsters or ghosts or something worse, but let me clear it up for you: we are. Ever since that Halloween where we almost drowned, we’ve been… I don’t know. Different. We don’t sleep, we don’t eat. I know that you’ve noticed, but you’ve never wanted to listen to that little voice inside of you telling you what we are. What we’ve become. But everyone else has, Mom. Everyone else knows, except you. But we can't stay here any more. We had our extra time, and it's over now. We're done. So we’re leaving. For good._

_I leave my house and all my possessions to you. My poetry and short story manuscripts are on my dresser in the bedroom. Please make sure the people who commissioned them receive them in a timely manner (free of charge. I don’t need the money anymore). You can decide what happens to Greg’s stuff. He’s fifteen, you’re his mom. Do whatever the hell you want. Oh, god, this is starting to sound like a will. This is not a will. We’re just… leaving and never coming back. We’re not dying (hopefully). But we’re not going to need our things where we’re going._

_Please, don’t think this is your fault. In fact, over the past few years, you’ve been the one person who’s been consistently kind to us. Well, you and Greg’s dad. Whatever happens to us, don’t blame yourself, okay? You were a fantastic mother. We both love you so much._

_Goodbye. I love you. I’ll miss you. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure Greg is safe._

_Love, Wirt_

_P.S. If the police are bugging you for clues about where we are, tell them to check out by the cemetery. You deserve as much closure with this as I can give you._

 

The letter was wrinkled and smudged, but still the once-mother kept it, running her fingers along the neat letters and choking on her tears. She was a bit of a town kook, that one, with her dead sons and her broken heart. Poor dear. And what a damn shame about those brothers, too.

 

What a damn shame.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the story is complete, and everyone is satisfied with the ending (I hope!). 
> 
> Major thanks to everyone who reblogged my original post on tumblr with tags like "wow someone should write this" and "fic please!!" because look. I did it.
> 
> Also thanks to Will daveyjackobs on tumblr for supporting me and encouraging me and getting really mad every time I wrote something sad. You keep me going, kid. 
> 
> And... that's about all I have to say. Thank you for reading, all of you! And thanks to all future readers! You're all beautiful and I love you.

**Author's Note:**

> the original post is this one: http://dumbkili.tumblr.com/post/102990734891/dumbkili-yeah-but-wirt-and-greg-taking-some-of
> 
> this fic updates pretty much every day, or every other day if i have school.


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